All Men Are Evil

Outside, the city was waking up from under a thin blanket of snow. I got dressed for work. Engineer boots, jeans, brown wool sweater, heavy leather jacket. I waited at the kitchen table, over coffee, near the window overlooking the street. Over the years, I've learned how to wait. To crawl inside myself. Speed up time. Sometimes, it's the only safe place.

When I saw the old van pull up and double park in front of the building, I knew my wait was over.

On my way out the door, I pulled on my stocking cap. When I hit the stairs, I popped an Altoid to fight the coffee breath. I had my gloves on before I hit the street.

Morning air hit my face like a snowball, icy fingers reached down my throat.

I quicky climbed into the van.

Price handed me a pistol, keeping it low.

Twenty-two, he said. Hollow points. Small, but she'll do.

I pocketed it, told him to drive.

We reached the repair garage by quarter to eight. Price was impatient. As usual. I told him we were early. He just wanted the job over. Like I was looking forward to it. I told him to have a cigarette. He lit one and cracked his window.

Lamb came out of the door by the pop machine, hurried across the snowy gravel lot and climbed in behind us.

Price drove us to a small rest stop out on the interstate. The lot was empty, except for two abandon cars. Around us, the trees were naked and gray, futily reaching for the thin sliver of light cracking the heavy, dull clouds.

I rolled down my window.

Lamb was eager to find out what was going on. Price asked him if he'd talked to Garret. Lamb shook his head negative.

I took out the pistol. One round to the face. Even with my window down, the little pop left a ringing in my ears. Lamb never saw it coming. Price jumped, laughing nervously.

I handed him back the pistol, told him to get rid of it.

We left the van and Lamb and headed for the waiting cars.

Jesus, man, how do you do it? Price asked on the way to the cars.

It's easy, was all I said. I just think of my old man.